Sixty-Forty
by trufflemores
Summary: 2.23. Cisco releases Barry from his cell.


**Author's Notes: Hello! It's been a few weeks. I am a little rusty, so bear with me. Regardless: enjoy!**

Sixty-forty.

The defense wouldn't hold up in court. _I almost said no_. 'Almost' only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, not in choosing to steal a person's freedom.

Knitting his hands behind his head, Cisco thinks, _We did the right thing_.

It doesn't make it any easier to watch. Barry pounds on the glass for ten minutes, bruising the knuckles over and over and over, short interludes allowing Cisco to see their bluing surface revert to its usual reddish hue before he repeats the process. He shouts and screams, virtually soundless, but Cisco can feel it shiver through his bones, an unceasing repetition of his final petition: _You have to let me stop him._

Sitting in the chair, arms folded, brow low, Cisco Vibes again.

It's the same vision as before: there's a casket sitting in the grass, a somber minister presiding over it, and the anonymous Flash fans from across Central City gathering in the thousands to worship their hero one last time. Stepping forward, Cisco already knows who is inside the casket, heartbeat heavy in his chest, hands shaking. _This isn't the future_ , he reminds himself, hushed, sickened, as he reaches the top of the tier and places a hand on the box. _This isn't our future_.

But it is someone's.

Opening his eyes, he is surprised to find tears clumped there, reaching up to rub them away, grateful for the momentary solitude to express his grief.

Jesse, Harry, and Caitlin are in the med bay, discussing their options about recovering Joe. Cisco takes comfort in the fact that he hasn't Vibed Joe's death, even if he can't seem to stop Vibing Barry's. Every time Barry takes a step, Cisco's mind clouds over with those visions.

They aren't _his_ truth. But there are someone's.

He can't, under any circumstances, let them become _his_ truths.

Getting himself under control, he watches the screen, compelled, appalled, struggling to justify locking Barry in a box – _I don't like being caged_ – when he knows the alternative is uncertain. He's had false Vibes before, improbable visions that he hasn't shared with the rest of the team, like a man who can crush steel with his bare hands. That vision intrigues but does not delude him. The Man of Steel isn't part of their universe: reports should have reached his ears by now, and he has _looked_ for any traces. Nothing turns up. Clearly some visions don't belong to him and his universe.

But the stakes are profound if Cisco allows Barry to proceed and it costs Barry his life.

 _It's a necessary precaution,_ Harry justifies.

 _It's a necessary evil_ , Cisco lobbies back.

He fights hard, but even in the end, he can't admit certainty that Barry won't bolt. Barry is unstoppable; no human being can catch a speedster. The fact that Barry has overridden them before, repeatedly, pounds the final nail into the coffin.

Shuddering, Cisco banishes the image, tempted to close the screen as well but standing down. He may have agreed to lock Barry in a cell, but he didn't agree to abandon a friend. It feels perverse to silence his screams, to put his audio on mute and lock him behind a steel, soundproof door; short of a powerful explosion, he can't make a sound unless they let him.

But for their sanity, they can't listen: the more desperate Barry gets, the more persuasive he can be. He throws his _whole heart_ into everything, so when he looks at Cisco he looks straight through him, not accusatory but profoundly disappointed.

 _I thought we were friends_.

Cisco tries to justify his own resistance, to say he was _sixty-forty_ , but Harry is right.

He said _yes_ when he could have said _no_.

Agitated, Barry paces, hands alternately in his hair and at his sides, temper visibly rising and falling in tense shoulders, open hands.

A second voice nearly startles Cisco out of his seat. "How is he?" Iris asks, frowning as she steps forward, watching the sulking speedster sink back against the wall, elbows on his knees. It doesn't look particularly comfortable, but Cisco doesn't comm him to ask if he wants a chair or something soft to cushion it.

 _He's not our prisoner,_ Cisco thinks, even though the Spartan accommodations in a solitary cell don't persuasively argue the contrary.

Cisco doesn't need to respond to Iris' query: the answer is written plainly on the screen. She puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, and he sighs, reaching up to press his own palms against his eyes. They did the right thing – he knows it as surely as he feels the cool wood of Barry's coffin on a stormy, secluded summer morning – but he can't _see_ it.

"Once we close the breach," Iris says, voice tight, "then we can let him go."

 _Once we condemn Joe, then we can let Barry go_.

They haven't even told Barry yet – no one has the heart to, not even Harry, chronic deliverer of bad news – but it seems imprudent not to. Like it'll come back to haunt them, to shatter something, to disrupt the carefully tuned threads of their plan, dissolving the orchestra and leaving dissonance in its wake. Cisco can't place the source of his unease – the only clear vision he has is of Barry's final Earthly hours – but he can _feel_ it.

He can almost see it, though, lightning on the horizon, a storm approaching, a speedster cutting across the landscape before – _Flash_ , gone.

 _We can't close the breach_ , Cisco thinks, watching Barry's shoulders twitch, feeling a lump lodge in his throat as the gesture progresses to shivering. He doesn't know if Barry is cold, doesn't feel like disturbing him by upping the thermostat – is half-afraid to, aware that speedsters rely on heat and given enough Barry might prove the first escapee of his inescapable cell – but he watches Barry shiver and feels guilty, nonetheless.

His face pales, both hands clasped, and Cisco is about to up the thermostat a little, realizing that enough is _enough_ , when he Vibes—

Zoom holds Barry's body up like a trophy, a triumphant snarl deep in his chest –

Blinking, Cisco puts a hand on the console to ground himself, shaken. He doesn't know how many more times he can look at Barry's corpse and persuade himself that it isn't _his Barry_.

 _Does it matter?_ he thinks, unable to banish the lump in his throat so easily.

On Earth-2, Reverb was nothing like him, but Barry – Barry was _familiar_ , not the same and certainly not the warrior Cisco would feel comfortable alongside in battle, but similar enough that Cisco found himself believing that it really _was_ Barry. He wanted to trust Barry, to be with Barry, to rely on Barry. It was easy enough in theory to distinguish them, _Barry and Bartholomew_ , one sharp and easy and immediate, the other long-winded and heavy and ivory tower, but in practice, they shared the same name, the same face, the same stance, the same voice. Different inflections, different histories, different motives, but watching them face-to-face, Cisco doesn't see two different people.

He sees two different sides of the same person, like good and evil but subtler, mischief and manner, authority and autonomy, fight and flight. But the bold one can cower and the coward can be bold; the autonomous one can be caged and the authority-loving one can make exceptions; the mischievous one can be collared and the mannered one driven to rebellion. Under the right circumstances, the same system can evolve into profoundly different states of being – from an unlit match to a roaring fire, from a wall of water to a sea of ice, from supermassive stars to diminutive black holes – but only in doppelgangers can those systems exist simultaneously, the before and after, the conclusion and beginning of a universe, the end-all, be-all split into two distinct people sharing the same self if not soul.

Watching Barry and Bartholomew, Cisco could have misidentified which one was his own Barry, Barry's head bowed, Bartholomew's upright, challenging. Looking into an open casket at Barry's corpse, inanimate, cleansed of its context, Cisco doesn't know if he could tell the two individuals apart, if he could tell _any_ of Barry's contemporaneous doppelgangers apart.

When one of them dies, it does not comfort him to know that their legacy lives on. His Barry matters – and theirs do, too.

And on a lot of Earths – too many Earths – Barry's last encounter with Zoom does not end well.

A sulking speedster is a small price to pay for Barry's life. Temporary discomfort can be forgiven for long-term gain.

 _The ends justify the means_.

Cisco blinks, surprised that his engineering inclinations brought him to one of the most reputable science facilities in the world, only to inherit a Machiavellian bent from a man who was not who he said he was. Dr. Wells always believed in great risks for great rewards. When it came to the particle accelerator, there was only a tiny chance of catastrophic failure, but the impact of that failure was profound enough to balance the scales: it would change the world, one way or another. None of them dreamed it would go nova and change a city.

 _Dr. Wells did_.

Cisco smiles humorlessly. Thawne knew what he was doing. He knew exactly what ends he required and what means he would have to do to achieve it.

Cisco almost wishes he shared the man's confidence.

Almost.

When Barry's shivers cease and his stare adopts a listless, almost dead quality, Cisco considers going down to talk to him. He wants to – needs to tell Barry that he didn't make this decision to overrule Barry's voice, that he didn't do it to _hurt_ Barry, that he only agreed because he was terrified of the potential repercussions of Barry's freedom.

None of it would help, and Cisco knows it.

Even devoid of emotion, Barry's expression makes it clear that an apology isn't going to cut it. _Let me go,_ his expression commands.

 _Or leave me alone_ , his stance rebuffs.

One hand creeps up to rub the back of his left shoulder, a wince distorting his passive expression, and Cisco feels another jolt of guilt at the reminder that they shot him down. Like an animal. Using darts that were fully three inches long, punching through suit and shoulder like it wasn't _there_ , sinking into the muscle. They had to be big to penetrate the suit and catch in his shoulder rather than glancing from his skin. Still, it hurt to watch: Harry shot him and Barry staggered, gasping, visibly in pain as he stumbled towards the wall, trying to reach back to pull out the offending needle. Cisco wasn't even sure he knew what he was doing – Caitlin assured them that the dose of sedative was strong enough to knock out a speedster in less than six seconds.

That's all they put him through – six seconds of pain. Six seconds for a lifetime of pain and pain avoidance. Their line of work meant that there was no true end to it, only pauses in between confrontations. But it felt longer, and it felt wrong, being on the inflicting end of the torture.

Cisco tries and fails to imagine volunteering for the same treatment. _Necessary precaution_ , Harry calls it.

 _Necessary evil_ , Cisco responds.

When Barry's mouth drops open, the way his chest is heaving becomes obvious. His face is definitely paler, and Cisco thinks, _Don't throw up_ because he hates the thought of Barry sitting in a disgusting cell, unable to escape. It's large enough that he wouldn't have to sit in it and well-ventilated enough to air out, so it wouldn't be intolerable, but the thought still twists his heart.

Jaw clamped, Barry lowers himself to lie on his side, painstakingly slow, back to the camera to shield his expression. There are other cameras, fully three-sixty view, but Cisco lets him have that much privacy.

Then Barry starts shivering again and doesn't stop. He doesn't uncurl or look at the camera, long limbs drawn inward, fetal, trying to crush his own discomfort.

After five minutes have passed Cisco can't take it anymore. He turns off the screen and immediately feels guilty, ashamed that he can't even look at Barry. It feels inhumane, condemning Barry to silence and solitude without even the illusion of companionship, but he can't be on the other side of the glass, knowing he can't open it.

 _Two minutes. Set your watch_.

Reflexively, Cisco looks down and mentally sets his watch.

Stillness sweeps over him, accompanying another vision: in the blue-black darkness of his vision, he sees a triumphant Barry kneeling in front of Zoom on the pavement. Zoom looks ragged, defeated, and Barry looms over him, plunging a hand through Zoom's chest before the impulse to even say _no_ can reach the neurons in Cisco's brain. Less than a second later, Barry releases him, Zoom's carcass collapsing against unyielding stone, limp, unmoving. Cisco's relief is short-lived as two time wraiths appear, converging upon the two speedsters, and Zoom is ignored, already deceased, but Barry – he's a target. Cisco has the sickening sense of misinterpretation, _you've got the wrong guy_ , before they sweep in.

It's quick, but not quick enough. When they each take an arm and haul Barry away, Cisco can only watch, anguished, because _no, no, no, it wasn't him, **it wasn't him**._

Eyes open, Cisco staggers, heart racing. It doesn't matter that it's a vision, it doesn't _matter_ that it hasn't happened yet ( _may never, calm down_ ) because it _could_ and dammit if there isn't a _limit_ to Cisco's ability to ignore the possibility.

He does not ask – they will say no – but none of them are looking at him as he slips out of the cortex.

Once he is far enough away that his footsteps will not be heard, he runs.

Ronnie told him not to open the door, _everyone in this building will die_ , but Cisco ignores the impulse.

 _Caitlin, I'm not Ronnie. You've gotta stop treating me like I am._

And Barry isn't Ronnie, isn't big laughs and easy cool and friendly drinking partner after work, but he is _Barry_ , irreplaceably present in Cisco's life. Excluding him, even for his own protection – Cisco's stomach sinks, half-convinced that he will find an empty cell even as he punches in the open door code.

Barry has never nor will ever look small, but he does seem fragile, lying on his side on the floor, not bothering to get up. Cisco says his name twice – _Barry_ – before tapping on the glass. "Hey," he says out loud, tapping harder. "Bar."

Barry groans, pushing himself upright with obvious stiffness. "What?" he rasps without looking at Cisco, turning and blinking slowly. "Cisco?"

"Hey," Cisco repeats, putting a hand, palm flat, against the wall, a rush of gratitude and relief surging through him. "Hey, let's get you out of here, okay?"

Barry blinks slowly, ashen-faced, before nodding once, struggling to his feet with creaky movements as Cisco scrambles to his own feet, getting the actual cell door unlocked in six seconds.

Barry stumbles a little and Cisco is there, arm under his shoulder. Barry's a big guy and Cisco's only a hair about average, a cool prognosis in a _machismo_ hungry world, but he still supports Barry's weight and feels the headiest relief he has ever known that Barry is still _alive_.

He's always been a hugger and enjoyed physical contact, but Barry can be reserved at times, needing space, and Cisco half-expects him to Flash out of sight. Barry wobbles instead, leaning on him, and Cisco stays standing, knowing Harry and Caitlin and Jesse won't approve _but Iris will_.

She'd been opposed, too, standing her ground until the unanimity of the remaining vote swayed her. It was hard to hear Barry says their names – _Cisco? Iris?_ – with such open, pleading expectation. They always supported him – until necessity drove them towards another path.

 _I'm sorry,_ Cisco says without words, helping Barry limp away from the cell.

Warmth emanates from the suit, burning, a little too-hot, like a fever, as electricity trickles through Barry's veins, igniting at the points of contact. There is a speed-suppressing quality to the cells – unavoidable: the gravitational fields are the only thing keeping metahumans in besides standard bulletproof glass, bumped up a few notches – but it'll fade soon. Speedsters heal quick; it's one of their most spectacular qualities.

Even so, Barry doesn't seem well, slow and silent, almost ponderous at his side. Cisco doesn't push him, grateful that he isn't explosive. Barry's quiet response disconcerts, but it is far easier to adjust to than rage. Despite his concerns, he's glad Barry is on the other side of the glass. Even visibly struggling, Barry is strong – an ally Cisco cannot afford to lose. A partner, a friend, a _for-the-rest-of-my-life_.

He has lost too many friends – Dante, Caitlin, Dr. Wells, every employee at Star Labs before the explosion, _Ronnie_ – in crises, in moments of weakness, in hours of need. He has attended twenty-two funerals in the past three years, unable to resist being present for _all_ of the casualties of the initial particle accelerator explosion as well as subsequent metahuman victims.

They said he only needed to go to one – Ronnie's – and spare himself. But he wanted to be there. He wanted to be there for the last Earthly moments of their lives before they were subsumed, memorialized, entombed in memory.

There was no body to bury the second time Ronnie died – and no triumphant return, either. Bette's grave was solitary, at sea; Eliza's grave was intangible, starry. Tony, Farooq, the Turtle, Al Rothstein – they still needed proper resting places. Their morgue- _ish_ lab was eerie, unsettling, and proven to be prone to zombies. Cisco wanted it gone.

As for Henry – it's hard to think about Henry. Cisco didn't know him well enough, but he knows Barry, and Barry's anguish is his own.

Supporting Barry's heavy frame, Cisco is aware of how close he has come to losing Barry. He has visions, sometimes, of Barry dying catastrophically: in a tsunami, in an explosion, in a – a _machine_. He wakes up at night thinking about those lost hours where Barry was in the 'Speed Force,' unreachable, far away, dead to the world. He recalls that coma, innocuous, an intrusion into their space casually forgotten as a human being over the succeeding months until Barry woke up. He thinks about the time wraiths and metahumans and speedsters they have taken down.

He thinks about Zoom.

"Cisco," Barry interrupts, voice rasping a little. Before Cisco can respond, Barry sinks to the floor, torpid, seemingly unable to walk farther. Cisco falls with him, controlled, careful, feeling an ache in his chest, an unrelenting accusation in his head. Barry presses his open palms against the floor for support. There is no fight in him – shoulders slouched, breathing heavy, he closes his eyes, swayed by exhaustion.

It startles him to see how low The Flash has been brought, how one of his most humbling moments is not brought about by his enemies but by his friends. Caitlin promised that the drug wouldn't hurt him – and she is just as invested in Barry's safety as Cisco's; she wouldn't agree to it if she didn't trust her own abilities – but Cisco can't help but worry, stomach tight with it.

"You okay?" he asks.

Barry nods a little, but he doesn't get up. He stays low for a moment longer, letting the possibility of _not_ fighting pass over him. Cisco can see it, the way he loses strength, loses the desire to fight them and just resolves to be subdued. It reminds him of Barry in Zoom's cell, quiet, defeated, head bowed, chest heaving with unspoken misery.

Barry doesn't want to be left behind, Cisco knows, one arm around his back, keeping Barry upright. He doesn't want to be brought to the table for the slaughter. He doesn't want to die for them. He will if he has to – he will suffer anything he _has_ to – but Cisco is reassured to see the reluctance there, the resistance to be nothing but a name on a ledger, another martyr in the grave.

 _You're not gonna die_ , Cisco thinks, squeezing his shoulders. _I won't let you_.

Cisco has let too many people go. Through ignorance ( _Bette_ ), through cowardice ( _Wells_ ), through circumstance ( _Ronnie_ ), he has lost irreplaceable people in his life. He won't lose anyone else.

"Come on," he urges, refusing to let Samson lie down, refusing to be the one who stole his strength. "Let's go."

Slowly, Barry pushes himself upright. He's still shaking, but he walks largely under his own power the rest of the way to the cortex. He finds the strength to argue with Harry, Jesse, and Caitlin about their next step. He finds the fire to face off Iris; the grit to partner with Wally; the forgiveness to stay in the room with the people who imprisoned him.

Cisco still doesn't know which Barry he has, but there are only two options: the one who survives his next encounter with Zoom, and the one who does not.

Cisco intends Barry to be the former.

* * *

In the end, the odds are in their favor.

The time wraiths carry Zoom's body away, leaving cold quiet in their wake. No one knows what to say or do in the immediate aftermath, caught up in a whirlwind of feeling, aware of the Magnetar's obliterating presence ( _it's gone now, it's gone, we're safe_ ) and the night's comforting quiet.

Barry's knees fold and Cisco is there, helping Caitlin get him back up, fearing for a moment that he was wrong, the plan failed, and now Barry—

Exhales, relaxing for the first time in more than a year.

Cisco feels it in his own chest, the strangling, suffocating presence of Zoom finally vanishing, and even though Barry is tired and limp he is still triumphant, squeezing both of their shoulders with gratifying strength.

 _We're alive_ , the gesture declares.

And that's all they need to be.

* * *

That night, Cisco dreams of lightning in the woods, in the fields, across the infinity of existence.

At these speeds Barry is invisible to him, only tangible as a bolt of yellow light, passing over the landscape with inexhaustible energy.

There are futures, Cisco knows, where the light goes dark. But the overall arc of the lightning never wavers, never dims, and Cisco knows with equal surety that there will always be a future with Barry in it.

Sitting back and watching the lightning, he hopes it will always be his own.


End file.
